


You Worry Me

by wikipediabr0wn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family Feels, Foster Care, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jewish Starks, Orphans, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Robb has anxiety, Separation Anxiety, Sibling Bonding, Starklings, Suicidal Thoughts, throbb if you squint really really hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-10-18 14:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wikipediabr0wn/pseuds/wikipediabr0wn
Summary: Four years ago Ned and Catelyn Stark died in a house fire. They left behind six children unprepared to shoulder the weight of what had happened to them. When no relatives were willing or able to care for the children, Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon were scattered to the wind. Suddenly, the six Stark siblings were alone. Then, as Robb turned eighteen, the eldest Stark made a desperate attempt to stitch what's left of his family back together.ORmodern au where ned and cat die and the stark kids are separated by the foster system





	1. Robb

Robb stood in the threshold of Theon’s apartment and not for the first time began to question everything about this plan. He bit his lip and adjusted the way his canvas duffel bag sat on his shoulder. He could almost say that his life was teetering on the edge of falling apart, but he knew that was wrong. His life toppled off that edge four long years ago and here, standing in an empty hallway at 5:30 in the morning, he was just beginning to stitch things back together.

Theon opened the door, groggily. He was dressed in sweats and it seemed like he’d just rolled out of bed. He probably had. Robb couldn’t blame him. He looked at Robb and without saying a word, stepped aside to let him in.

Once standing in Theon’s dark lounge, Robb dropped his bags on the ground and stood still for a second. He just needed to take it all in. He’d been in this apartment probably a million times, but this time it was different.

“Hey mate,” Theon said, pushing hand up into his hair. “I wasn’t really expecting you this early, so I’m going back to bed. But feel free to get some coffee or something.” Robb nodded. It was to himself more than anything else. Everything was still pretty surreal at the moment.

He whispered, weirdly feeling uncomfortable talking at full volume before the sun had risen, “Thanks so much for doing this. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m here for you.”

Robb nodded again.

“And Robb?” Theon continued.

“Yeah?”

“Happy birthday.”

The floorboards creaked and Robb knew Theon had gone back into his bedroom. He took a deep breath and sat down on the couch, kicking off his shoes. It was still early. He could probably sleep for a couple more hours. He needed it. He couldn’t even remember that last time he’d gotten a full night’s rest. But try as he might, Robb didn’t think it was possible for him to fall asleep right now. His head was buzzing and his hands were shaking. He decided to take Theon’s advice and make himself some coffee. Decaf. The last thing he needed was caffeine.

Flipping on the lights, he dragged himself to the tiny kitchen and turned on the coffee machine. He hopped up on the counter and chewed on his nails. He wondered whether any of his siblings were awake. And if they realized that it was his 18th birthday. Jon was probably awake. Jon knew better than he did what this day meant.

The last time he’d talked to Jon was almost a year ago. It was before Robb had been moved from the care of the Murphys to that of the McLaughlins. Of the five foster homes he’d been in over fours years, the stay with the McLaughlins had been the shortest and quietest. 3 months of bliss. They had no other children, so the fighting that had led Robb to be moved around so much was no longer a problem.

But it all ended when he told them he’d be moving in with Theon for a while when he turned 18. He didn’t bother going into any further detail than that. He figured they wouldn’t be too upset about it anyway. It wasn’t as if they were all that invested in his life. They were nice enough, but Robb had always gotten the feeling that when they applied to be foster parents, they had dreamed of giving some little kid a nice home. Not supporting an orphaned teenager with a boatload of emotional baggage. So, the separation was mutual.

Robb remembered the last phone call he’d had with Jon. Jon had said that things were going to be changing soon and that he wasn’t sure when they’d be able to talk again. The next time Robb called, he got no answer. And so went the last link Robb had to his family. He’d lost track of Sansa and Arya almost immediately after the fire. Bran and Rickon shortly after that. He and Jon had only been able to stay connected by some small miracle. Robb knew that it was only a matter of time before something happened. The devastation was painful nonetheless.

The coffee pot was full and steaming. The tips of Robb’s fingers were red and raw from him chewing them. Robb glanced out the window above the sink. It had the glorious view of the alley below. The morning sunlight was beginning to gleam off the broken glass that littered the concrete. He grabbed one of Theon’s many novelty mugs from the cupboard above him. This one’s handle was shaped like a saxophone. He was mindlessly pouring himself a cup of coffee when Theon came into the kitchen.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Robb asked, stirring in a spoonful of powdered creamer.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Coffee?” Robb was already grabbing a second mug before Theon could say anything. He poured the second cup of coffee and handed it to his friend. Theon took one long sip before exhaling a melodramatic ‘aaah’.

“I still don’t know how you drink it black,” Robb said, smiling and bringing his legs up onto the counter. Theon leaned back against the stove and shrugged. “I like it like that.” Robb shook his head.

They both looked out the window, not really sure what to talk about. For the past four years, Theon had been a lifeline that Robb had clung to. But something fundamental was changing in Robb’s life and he wasn’t sure how Theon was going to fit into it after it did.

Always brash, Theon broke the silence. “So this is it, huh? You’re really leaving?”

“It’s going to be a couple weeks. My parents’ lawyer is still figuring things out.” Robb replied, still not entirely ready for this conversation.

“But he’ll figure it out?”

“Yeah.”

Theon nodded. “How much are you getting? You never told me.”

Robb hesitated. He didn’t like talking about how wealthy his parents were. Especially since he knew that many of the foster siblings he’d had over the years didn’t come from a nice home. Theon included. Still, he was honest. “£265,000. And our second home.”

Theon whistled in shock. “Holy shit. I knew you were getting a lot but that’s. . .”

Robb looked down. “Yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck. “I know.” There was a silence of the grave. Then, Theon spoke. “I think you’ve mentioned that house before. The second home, I mean.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’d said it was in. . . Aberdeen or. . . somewhere up north.”

“It’s in Winterfell— north of Aberdeen— but yeah, that general area.”

Theon suddenly looked very sad. Robb knew that he didn’t really want him to leave. They’d been there for each other since Robb first came to Belfast. They’d been foster brothers. They’d been best friends. Robb had probably spent more nights at Theon’s apartment then he had at any of his foster homes. Theon was the only one outside his immediate family that Robb knew he could trust. But in two weeks, Robb was leaving Northern Ireland and walking away. Theon couldn’t be happy about that.

Robb downed the last of his coffee and put his mug in the sink. He said, “You’re still going to be my friend,” he said firmly. “All the shit we’ve been through isn’t going away.”

Theon frowned. “You’re leaving,” he said bluntly.

“I have to,” Robb insisted, albeit guiltily. “I haven’t seen Bran, Rickon, or the girls in years. I don’t even know where they are. And you know I haven’t talked to Jon in nearly a whole year now? They’re my little siblings. I have to take care of them.”

Theon pinched the bridge of his nose. Robb knew he wasn’t really angry; he was just upset at the situation. “Yeah, I know. . . I’m just going to miss you.” He finished his coffee and brought the empty ceramic mug down against the countertop with a dull clack. He sighed and shook his head. Then, with a frown and furrowed brow, he brought Robb in for a hug. Robb readily wrapped his arms around Theon and squeezed tight.

He buried his head in Theon’s shoulder and exhaled. His voice muffled in Theon’s sweatshirt, Robb said, “Y’know, I love you like a brother.”

Theon laughed wetly, “I know. Love you too.”

When they pulled apart, Theon had tears in his eyes. Robb thought better than to mention it. Instead, he just gave crooked smile.

Theon nodded and walked back to the lounge to plop himself down on the couch. He said, “So what’s your plan? You’ve been so vague about all this. I’m starting to wonder whether you’re just gonna fuck off to the Carribean with all that money.” Robb laughed at the abrupt tonal shift, following Theon into the lounge.

“No. Not that,” he chuckled, shoving his hands in his sweatpants pockets. “I haven’t really been able to talk about it because I wasn’t sure how much money I was gonna get. Actually, I was more worried about the house. The fact that I’ve got the place up in Winterfell is really lucky.” Robb sat down on the carpet in front of the coffee table, facing away from Theon. He pulled a well-used notebook from the duffel bag next to him. “I told you I wanted to go back to Scotland. Having the house means that I’ll have a place to stay when I get there,” he said. “I figure me— and Jon— will live there for a while until we can find the rest of ‘em.”

Theon raised an eyebrow. “I thought you couldn’t reach Jon.”

Robb opened the notebook and smoothed out the worn pages with a delicate touch. “I can’t,” he said. “But before his number got disconnected I told him that I wanted to go back. I think he’s smart enough to realize that that's where I’m gonna go”

Theon nodded. “And what’s that?” he asked, looking at the notebook and sitting down.

Robb turned to look at him and smiled. “This is the plan.”

Theon laughed. “Christ, Stark, organized, are we?”

“In this case, yes.” Robb flipped through the pages of the notebook, briefly glancing at his own handwriting on each page. It was hard to believe that things were beginning to fall into place. In two weeks he’d be on a train north to Scotland— to home. There, he’d find his siblings and begin to piece the life he once knew back together.

“So,” Theon started. “What’s first?”

Robb furrowed his brow in concentration. “Find Jon. Last I knew he was in Edinburgh.” Robb shook his head. “But that was a long time ago now and he was so cryptic in our last call. He just dropped off the face of the Earth.”

Theon took the notebook from Robb and began to flip through the pages nonchalantly. “That happens,” he said. “I’ve known quite a few people that just sorta disappeared.” Robb shook his head again, more fervently. “No. Jon wouldn’t just do that. Something must’ve happened to him.”

Theon continued to look through the pages of Robb’s notes. They ranged from the logistics of moving up north, to contacts in the foster system, to the possible whereabouts of his missing siblings. Robb doubted that Theon was actually reading any of it. Theon plopped the notebook into Robb’s lap and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ll figure it out,” he said. “You always do.”

Robb leaned backward against Theon’s leg and closed his eyes. He could feel the gentle heat of the morning sun on his face. He hummed. “I hope so.”


	2. Jon

 Jon stood near the back of the funeral home. He looked out into the sea of people that had come to pay their respects. It was mostly elderly men and their wives. All of them had tired frowns carved into their faces. There were a few younger men, however. Guys who had lived in the group home. And then of course, the boys who lived there now; all of them awkward and young and unsure. Jon tried his best to avoid eye contact with anyone as he buried his hands deep in the pockets of his ill-fitting dress pants.

Jeor Mormont had been there for him when Jon needed him most. It was hard to see him go. Jon knew that the still body lying in that casket wasn’t the man who had taken him in. That man was dead and gone. All that was left was a lifeless body. 

Sam walked up to Jon, giving him a half-hearted wave. His eyes were red and puffy. “Hey,” he said, sniffing. “How’re you holding up?” Jon shrugged. Jon was holding up just fine. He hadn’t shed a single tear. He knew that he should be sad. He should’ve been that bawling mess he was when his dad died. But he wasn’t and he didn’t understand why. He was numb. 

“I’m okay,” Jon replied, staring at the casket. “Just processing, y’know?” Sam nodded. 

“I can’t believe he’s really gone.” Jon nodded. “I’m going to miss him a whole lot. I don’t know where I’d be if I had never met him. I wouldn’t know you.” Jon nodded again, only half paying attention. It was hard to focus on anything but Mormont's body. Sam continued, “What do you think will happen now? To the group home, I mean. What do you think will happen to it now that he’s gone?” Jon tore his gaze away from the casket. He looked at Sam and frowned. Frankly, he hadn’t thought about what would happen after Mormont was gone. Even as the old man’s health was deteriorating and his death was becoming imminent, the details of what came after had never really crossed Jon’s mind. He shook his head and furrowed his brow. 

“I really don’t know. I haven’t really thought that far ahead.” 

“I suppose it won’t be all that different,” Sam said. Jon arched an eyebrow. 

“Well, you know the chemo was really taking a toll on him this past year. We all know it’s Thorne who has been running things for quite some time. My best guess says that he’ll take over completely.”

Jon pursed his lips together. “I don’t like that,” he said, perhaps a bit too harshly. “Thorne is no good. He’ll ruin things for those boys.”

“Jon, we are those boys,” Sam said.

Jon snapped, “Well, I won’t be soon enough.”  Sam’s eyes widened as he leaned back a bit. Jon huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know I’m turning eighteen soon. Two months. I’m not dealing with Thorne’s shit any longer than I have to.” 

Sam frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay? You haven’t been acting like yourself.”

Jon sighed. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

It was a lie and he knew it. His life was a fucking train wreck right now. Even more so than usual. He’d been on edge since Robb’s birthday. He always had a hard time around his siblings’ birthdays, but this one was particularly difficult. He had a vague sense of what Robb planned to do after he turned eighteen, but nothing concrete. It was an overwhelming weight on his shoulders that was constantly reminding him that he was so close, yet so very far away from seeing his brother again. Jon tried his best not to entertain the thought of reuniting with Robb-- or any of his siblings for that matter. It was an emotional minefield. In his head, Robb was still a lanky fourteen-year-old who liked his PS2 a little too much to be considered cool. Imagining what Robb could possibly look like now was enough to give Jon a headache, which was only made worse by the fact that the two hadn’t spoken in so long. 

“Hey, I think I’m going to head back now,” Jon said to Sam, “I need a break.” Sam frowned but nodded. 

Jon took one last look at the humble casket and walked out of the room. On his way out, he stopped by the front table which was adorned with a poster about Jeor Mormont's life. Jon picked up a postcard from the stack that sat untouched on the table. He flipped the card between his fingers. Adorning the front was a picture of Mormont, his stern eyes looking directing at the camera. On the back, in simply printed letters, it read:

 

_ Jeor ‘Old Bear’ Mormont _

_ 1938 - 2005 _

_ A fine and serious man; he will be missed. _

 

Jon swallowed hard. For the first time since Mormont’s death, Jon felt as if he might cry. He folded the card and put it in his pocket. Taking a deep breath, he walked out.

  
  
  


The group home had been eerily quiet in the days following Mormont’s death. All eight boys remained in their rooms and tried only to talk in hushed voices. It was quite unusual for the normally loud house. The death of the old man had put weight into the air that no one seemed to be able to shake. Everyone seemed to dive into their hobbies, their studies, and their grief. 

The group home had been built in the height of Queen Victoria’s reign. For some time during the second world war it had been used as a hospital for injured soldiers. Jon had met one man in a local pub who’d stayed in the house for a length of time after the war. He’d called it the eyesore of the Southwest. Jon couldn’t blame him; the thing was hideous. It seem to lean forward, bowing to the ground. In the wind, it shuddered with a horrid creaking noise. The wood siding was old and wanted for a fresh coat of paint. None of the windows seemed to match. Jon and Sam once sat outside for hours trying to find two matching windows. They’d failed, of course. But perhaps the most grotesque part of it all was the gangly turret that stood in the center of the house. It was somehow both too tall and too short and too skinny and too wide. It looked like it had been ripped from another building, and stuck onto this one with spit and chewing gum. And at the very top of its ugly frame was Jon’s bedroom.

When Jon walked in the door, the house was deadly silent. He glided across the old floorboards, peeking into every room he passed. Soon enough, he concluded that he was all alone in the old house. It was a welcome solitude. He made his way up the spiral staircase to his bedroom. He was the only guy in the house not to share a room, something he greatly appreciated. 

Being inside a turret, Jon’s room was circular and small. His rickety bed was situated between two windows, an armoire was opposite that. The room was sparsely decorated. Most of the things that would have served as decoration had burned in the fire. At the time, Jon hadn’t been focused on saving things like pictures or decor. All he had been able to fixate on were the voices of Cat and his dad screaming at him and Robb to _ wake your brothers!  _ and  _ get your sisters!  _ and  _ leave us! _ and  _ run!  _

Jon still remembered the way his bare feet scraped against the pavement as he carried Arya, sprinting away from the house. His belongings that had survived the fire were delivered to him in a canvas duffel bag three days after he’d arrived at the group home. A pair of shoes, his ice skates, a football, some clothes, his copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and a typed note from his father and step-mother’s lawyer saying that when he turns eighteen he’ll inherit one sixth of their fortune. The lawyer, Mr. Luwin, had signed the letter with a promise to keep in touch, but Jon was mere months away from his eighteenth birthday and hadn’t heard anything. 

Jon knew that Robb had turned eighteen just a few days ago. Last they’d spoken, Robb said that he planned to move back to Scotland. He could only assume that Robb would inherit something from Ned and Cat. The way Robb talked, it seemed like he’d had some solid information on what he was going to get, but he hadn’t said much. But that conversation had been before Thorne had taken over day to day operations of the home. Jon knew things could be far different now. 

While Mormont was in charge, Jon had enjoyed the same freedoms afforded to everyone else. The boys weren’t allowed to have cell phones. The only phone in the house was in Mormont’s office. But if their behavior was good, they would receive 30 minutes a week to make calls to family and friends. Jon used this time to call the only number which he had memorized. Robb. Every Saturday for three years, Jon would stand by the phone and talk to his brother for a half hour. It was the only connection to his family that he had left. 

After the cancer had gotten to a point where he could no longer work, Mormont had ceded his position as head of house to Alliser Thorne. Thorne, for one reason or another, despised Jon. He’d find any little thing to point out and punish him for. Week after week, Jon had minutes deducted off his phone time. He found himself increasingly isolated from Robb. Eventually, Jon gave up trying entirely. He’d decided to wait Thorne out. He would get his due justice when the old bear returned to health.

Well, that plan was dead in the water. Jon needed an out. He reached under his bed for his most valuable possession. A recycled peanut butter jar containing  £ 500\. On the lid in thick black marker were the words “Emergency Fund”. Inside was an amalgamation of money he’d scrimped and saved. Mostly fivers and tenners earned at odd jobs. Jon had seriously considered over the past few months taking the jar and bolting. Mormont’s funeral was the final nail in the coffin. If he didn’t leave, Thorne would continue to make his life miserable. 

Jon twisted the lid of the jar open, reaching in and rubbing the bank notes between his fingers. Yes. He would leave. He had more than enough money for a train ticket to Belfast. Robb was in Belfast. If he packed some food and clothes, he could get by. It would at least be better than this. Anything would be better than this. He’d have to go when things settled down a bit. Other than that, slipping out unnoticed would be easy enough. One week. Yes, one week would do just fine.

The front door made a miserable creak as it opened. Jon quickly slipped the jar back underneath his bed. He grabbed a book from his end table and pretended to read. Footsteps poured in from outside. Everyone was returning from the funeral home. The stairs creaked as someone walked up to Jon’s room. Sam emerged at the top of the steps. Jon closed the book. 

“Hey,” Sam said, a little breathless. He had clearly cried some more since Jon last saw him. He took off his blazer and threw in on the floor, flopping back onto Jon’s bed. 

“Hey,” Jon replied, climbing onto the bed.

“Jon, where do you think people go when they die?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

Sam rubbed the palms of his hands into his eyes. “I just— I’m tired.” Jon nodded. 

“It’s been a long week.”

Jon brought his knees up to his chest, chewing on his nails. He’d had the thought of running away before, but he never acted upon it. He never had any real reason to. But this was different. He had to tell Sam. Right? Now that he actually had money and was actually leaving, he should tell Sam.

Sam took a deep breath and threw his hands down to his sides. He propped himself up on his elbows. “Thorne’s ordering a pizza. And he says we can all eat in our rooms if we want. I think it’s the nicest thing he’s ever done in his life.” 

Jon half laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he started growing boils and foaming at the mouth. His body isn’t used to being kind.”

Sam smiled a wide smile that Jon hadn’t seen for a while. “I’m sorry for the way I acted at the funeral home. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. Like I said, it’s been a long week.” Jon fell back onto the bed, letting his legs dangle off the edge.

“It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it,” Sam assured. 

Changing the subject, Jon said, “Do you still have that big box of Dip Dabs that Talla sent you?” 

“Uhh. . . yeah I think so.”

Jon smiled. “Go get it. And your Game Boy too.”

Sam nodded and hopped up off the bed to grab the candy and Game Boy from the room he shared with Pyp. Jon grinned. He would tell him tonight. He and Sam would eat pizza and candy and play with the Game Boy and then he’d tell him that he was leaving. It would all be alright. 

The stairs creaked. Jon frowned and sat up. Sam couldn’t be back so soon. It wasn’t Sam. Alliser Thorne stood tall and the top of the stairs. Frown lines were etched deep into his lean face. his grey stubble shrouded his face in shadow. 

“Jon,” He said in a gruff voice. Jon felt his shoulders involuntarily hunching over and his face pinching into a glower. “there’s a call for you in my office. Come.”

Thorne turned around, grimacing at Sam who was making his way up the stairs with his Game Boy and a huge yellow box of candy in tow. Sam looked at Jon, eyes wide. Jon just shrugged and followed Thorne downstairs to the waiting phone call. 

The office was still decorated as if Mormont occupied it. It had the old bear’s degree and awards hanging on the walls. The only thing missing was the man himself. Thorne handed Jon the receiver of the desk phone and walked out of the room. That was odd. 

Jon pressed the phone to ear, sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs opposite the big oak desk. A gaping pit was forming in his stomach. It was a rare occasion when one of the boys gets a phone call. And it was never good news.

In a nervous voice, he managed to say, “Hello?”

A man with a light but serious tone asked, “Is this Jon Stark? Hello. My name is Mr. Luwin, your late father and mother’s legal representation, and trustee.”

“Catelyn wasn’t my mother.” It was the only thing that Jon could think of to say. He hadn’t expected to receive this call. Not today. Not ever. The years of radio silence from the lawyer in the letter had led him to believe that he would get nothing. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Catelyn wasn’t my mother,” Jon said again. There was movement on the other end.

“Oh, yes. Of course. My apologies.”

“It’s fine.”

“Anyway, I’m calling to inform you that your father and  _ step _ mother have left you a significant sum of money. In accordance with their will, you will gain access to these assets on your eighteenth birthday.”

Jon nodded, dumbly, barely registering that the man couldn’t see him over the phone.

“They also left you their house is Edinburgh. It, of course, burned down. So, you’ll receive the money from the insurance claim.”

“How much is that?”

“The insurance payout is £322,000. But, of course, you’ll also collect an additional £265,000 as an inheritance.”

Jon was at a loss for words. This was physical, tangible, real fuckin’ money that he was going to get— and soon. He didn’t need to run away. He was going to be fine. Just fine. He was going to be fucking fine. £500 was nothing. He had £587,000 coming his way. 

“One question,” he said, a bit out of breath.

“Yes?”

“Have you talked to my brother? Robb?”

“Why, yes. Of course.”

“What did he get?”

The man cleared his throat. “The same as you. £265,000. Except, he received the home in Winterfell.”

Jon smiled. “Winterfell?”

“Yes,” Mr. Luwin said.

“Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, Jon. Now this call was purely informative. I’ll call again before your birthday for your banking information.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jon hung up the phone and leaned back into the chair. He was set. He knew where Robb was going to be, he was getting money, he’d be able to support himself for years, probably. He laughed and pushed his hand up into his hair. For the first time in a long time, he knew exactly what to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this was out quicker than i thought it would be (:  
> i hope yall enjoyed reading it!  
>  
> 
> ((i changed jons last name from snow to stark because i couldn't think of any good reason why it would be snow in this universe))


	3. Sansa

Wednesdays were without a doubt the single greatest day of the week. They surpassed Fridays and even beat out Saturdays. Sansa had a special sort of bounce in her step on Wednesdays. The sun shined brighter and the grass seems greener. Every Wednesday afternoon, Sansa walked 2 kilometers from the Lannister residence to the home of Margaery Tyrell.

The walk wasn’t long and at the end of it, Sansa found Margaery sitting on the steps of her front porch, wrapped in a fleece blanket and smiling widely. She blew a big pink bubble.

“Gum?” she asked, popping it. Sansa nodded and sat down on the steps. Margaery pulled the pack from the blanket and turned it over to Sansa who popped a piece in her mouth. Bubble gum, undoubtedly the best flavor.

After a moment, Margaery whipped over to Sansa and took her by the shoulders, the blanket falling onto the steps in a fuzzy heap. Her smile had turned to a huge excited grin. “Sansa!” she practically yelled, “Ah! I really shouldn’t tell you.” She shook her head “He told me not to tell anyone but, oh my god!” There was another shake of the shoulders.

“What? What happened?” Sansa asked, now smiling too. Margaery took her hands off Sansa’s shoulders and brought them up to her faced in balled fists of excitement. She was shaking

“Okay, well, okay…” Margaery almost seemed to be having a conversation with herself.

“Marg if you don't tell me what’s going on I’m gonna scream!”

“Loras got a boyfriend!” Margaery actually did scream.

Sansa gasped, covering her mouth. “Really?!” Her voice had gone unimaginably high pitched. This _was_ exciting.

“Oh, and it gets better. It’s a college guy!”

“Oh my god!” Sansa yelled.

“I know!”

Suddenly Margaery got really quiet. Which was weird. Margaery was never quiet. She let out a little, “Oh.”

Sansa’s face fell. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Margaery looked away. “I don’t think you’re gonna like this next part.” She half-laughed.

“Well, you gotta tell me now,” Sansa smiled.

“Yeah, I know. Uhm.” Margaery bit her lip. She was so pretty when she did that. “The guy's name is Renly.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Renly… uhm... Baratheon.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. She blinked. And then she blinked again. “As in? As in Robert Baratheon?” Margaery nodded. Sansa pushed a hand into her hair. “That’s insane.” She shook her head. “I mean that’s _literally_ insane.”

“You’re not mad though? Right?” Margaery asked, a piece of hair falling into her face. She pushed it behind her ear. “I could totally just tell Loras to stop going out with him. He wouldn't like it but if you’re angry or weirded out by it or something, he’d probably break up with him. Probably.”

“No. It’s kinda weird. I mean Loras is… he’s your brother. He’s my friend. And Robert Baratheon is— was— my dad’s friend. And I guess Renly’s like my adoptive-uncle. If that’s even a thing. It’s a little bit strange. But I could get used to it.”

Margaery smiled. “Good. I was worried that you were gonna freak out and stop being friends with me or something.” She laughed. “And I’m only half joking.”

“Sorry, Marg. You’re stuck with me.”

“You haven’t met Renly have you?”

“No. My dad was only friends with Robert.”

Margaery slung the blanket over her shoulder and stood up. She started walking towards the door and Sansa followed. “In that case, would you like to meet him?” She put her hand on the door handle but didn’t turn it.

Sansa pointed towards that door. She mouthed the words, “He’s in there?” Margaery just smirked. Sansa shrugged and nodded.

Margaery pushed open the door. She kicked the door closed and touched Sansa’s lower back ushering her into the kitchen. As they walked, Sansa struggled to hide her giddiness over Margaery's hand on her back. She guessed that Marg either didn’t notice or chalked it up to excitement over meeting Renly.

Entering the kitchen, Sansa saw Loras and a man she could only assume was Renly leaning on the counter and talking. Loras was grinning. Renly looked like a younger (hotter) Robert Baratheon.

When the girls came in, he nodded to Margaery and then looked to Sansa. Sticking out his hand he said, “Hey. I’m Renly Baratheon.”

Sansa shook his hand. He had a firm handshake. She thought that was a good thing but she didn’t know why. She half-remembered Robb telling her that a man with a strong handshake is trustworthy. So far so good. “Sansa Stark,” she said. His eyes went a little wide.

“Oh,” he said, surprised. Sansa nodded. His head tilted and his eyes softened with pity. It was the way everyone looked after she told them what happened to her parents. “I’m so sorry for your loss. It was a big shock to hear what happened.”

Sansa sighed. “Yes. Thank you. And I’m sorry for your loss as well. I can’t imagine losing a sibling.” She silently reminded herself that she kinda had lost a sibling. Or five. At some point, the line between someone dying and someone being a million miles away begins to blur.

Margaery rubbed her back, somehow privy to what Sansa was thinking about. Sansa's heart skipped a beat.

Renly nodded. “Ah, yes. I’ll manage. Robert and I weren’t that close anyway.”

“Well,” Margaery said, smiling and clearly trying to lighten the mood. “I know this is a fresh and new relationship but—”

“Uh, Margaery?” Loras interrupted. “It’s actually been going on for a few weeks. This is just the first you're hearing of it.”

Margaery looked stunned. Sansa tried to hide her laughter.

“What? Then why did you tell me not to tell anyone?”

“Because I didn’t want you to immediately call Willas and Garlan and scream about it to them. I’m not an idiot, Marg. It’s Wednesday. I knew you were going to tell Sansa. I thought talking to her would get the excitement out of your system.”

Loras looked smug as Margaery’s mouth hung agape. “Y’know what?” she said. “Just for that. I’m not going to let you have any of my Dip Dabs. Or my Haribo. Or my Swedish Fish even though you love Swedish Fish. _And_ I’m going to tell Gram that _you’re_ the one who ate the last of her pistachio ice cream and she’ll disown you.” Margaery crossed her arms.

“You wouldn’t.” Loras dared.

“I absolutely would. And she’ll believe me because I’m the favorite.”

“No you’re not,” said Olenna, walking into the kitchen. “Sansa’s my favorite.” She pinched Sansa’s cheek as she opened the freezer, grabbing her pistachio ice cream. “But you _are_ right, dear.” Olenna reached for a spoon and opened the carton. “The first grandchild to eat the last of my ice cream is the first grandchild to be disowned.” She walked out, scooping the dessert into her mouth and calling back to them, “It was nice to meet you, Renly!”

Renly laughed. “I think I’ve met my favorite Tyrell.”

Sansa snorts as she walks over to raid the fridge. It’s easier to eat overhear where Cersei isn’t making snide comments about second helpings and carbohydrates. She pulls out a ready-made calzone. “So, where did you two meet?” She says, pointing to Renly and Loras.

“That club in the city. What’s it called?” Loras said, happy for the subjects change.

“Just John,” Renly said.

“Yeah. That's the one.”

Margaery leans back against the counter and looks at Sansa. “We should go there sometime.”

Loras snorts. “Marg it’s a gay bar.”

Margaery glares at her brother. “So?”

He cocks his head. “You’re not… are you…?”

Sansa tenses. Margaery turns pink. “I’m not… no! Shut up!” She grabs Sansa by the wrist and pulls her out of the kitchen. “C’mon, Sansa. Let’s go upstairs.”

Sansa lets herself be dragged out. She can’t help but be a little upset by Margaery’s reaction. She kinda wants to cry but she isn’t quite sure why. She’s just being stupid.

The girls walked into Margaery’s room and sit on her bed. Sansa finished her calzone while Margaery pulled out the latest issue of _Seventeen_. She pulled open and the magazine and glared into it.

“Marg?” Sansa asked.

“What?” Margaery refused to look up.

“Are you alright?”

Margaery shut the magazine and threw it off her bed. Shut buried her head in her hands before looking up with a clearly plastered on smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m great.”

Sansa frowned. “Marg th—”

“What time is it?”

“Margaery you ca—

“Oh shit. Sansa, it’s almost 5:30.”

That startled Sansa. She was supposed to be home before six and it would take like 20 minutes to walk back. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Sansa got up and headed to the door. “Marg, I gotta head home.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She pointed to Margaery and frowned. “That doesn’t mean we’re done talking. I know you probably won’t want to talk about this at school, but next time it’s just you and me—”

“Okay, Sans, I got it.”

“Okay.” Sansa opened the door and ran downstairs. She shouted goodbyes to Loras and Renly on her way out. Just as she stepped outside, thunder began to rumble in the distance. Then, one drop. Then, two. Soon, the sky had opened and the rain tumbled down. “Well, fuck”

She wrapped her cardigan around herself and bent her head down. Even walking so fast she was nearly running and ducking under awnings when she could, Sansa still was soaked by the downpour. By the time she was home, her whole body was drenched.

Her keds squelched when she stepped inside. She kicked them off and poked her head into the kitchen to look at the time. 5:56. Just made it. She ran upstairs to change into dry clothes. If she put on a dressing gown and threw her hair into a towel, it would look like she had showered. Cersei wouldn’t even know she was gone.

Right as she was about to slip into her room, Joffrey appeared, his arms crossed and his nose upturned. Damnit. Why was he here? He was supposed to have fencing class today.

“Where were you?” he asked. He seemed happy that she was home late. It gave him an excuse to get her in trouble.

Sansa rounded her shoulders and bit the inside of her cheek. He intimidated her and she hated it. “Nowhere.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m telling my mother.” He walked past her, purposely bumping into her. She silently flipped him off before sliding into her room.

It was the smallest bedroom in the house— even smaller than Tommen’s— and it was sparingly decorated. A basic twin bed and wardrobe. A small stuffed wolf sat atop the wardrobe. It was the only thing that she had grabbed when Robb woke her up _that_ night. She remembered sitting between her older brothers, watching red, orange, and yellow flames rise over their home, and clutching the stuffed animal in her arms.

A black duffel bag was tucked away under the bed. It was delivered to her a few days after she moved in with Robert, Cersei, and their family. In it were her only possessions that had survived the fire: some clothes. She’d grown out of them years ago, but couldn’t bring herself to throw them out.

Robert had been excited to take her in children after her parent’s death. But he made it painfully clear to Social Services that he only wanted one. Cersei wasn’t given a say in the matter. Robert had decided that he was going to raise one of Ned’s children and that was that. So, Sansa was shipped off to a ready-made family while her siblings went into foster care. Little did she know that Robert would die that following year, leaving her with adoptive siblings that didn’t like her and an adoptive mother who never wanted her. What a joy.

A loud creak rang throughout the house as Cersei opened the front door. Her heels clicked against the hardwood. Sansa could hear her walking into the kitchen to pour herself a drink as she yelled at someone through her blackberry.  “No, Tom. I don’t care what he says. Tell Tyrion he needs to be there. This family needs to look like we give a shit about each other for five minutes. Then, he can go back to fucking the French whore.”

Sansa hurried to change her clothes and dry her hair. She wouldn’t bother with the shower ruse since Joffrey would rat her out anyway.

As if on cue, Sansa heard Joffrey yell, “Mum!”

“Listen, Tom, I’m at home now and I want to have a pleasant evening with my children. This is the last I want to hear about this. If you call one more time I’ll stick my foot up your ass. Good night.”

Sansa swallowed hard as she walked from her bedroom to the stairs. She heard Cersei’s voice turn saccharine as she addressed Joffrey. “Yes, my dear.”

“Sansa was out doing God knows what. She was probably doing drugs. Or selling drugs. She needs to be punished!”

Sansa slinked into the kitchen just in time to see Cersei knock back an entire glass of wine in response to her son. She wiped her mouth and poured another. “Joffrey, go upstairs. We’ll discuss this later. I agree this is very serious and needs to be dealt with.” Joffrey, apparently finding this answer satisfactory, nodded and left. Cersei turned around to see Sansa, tucked away in the corner. She took a sip of her wine and shook her head. “I never thought I’d raise a snitch.”

Sansa smiled. “You’re not mad?”

Cersei crossed into the living room, wine bottle and glass in hand. She sighed. “No, little dove,” she said, sitting on the couch. She gestured for Sansa to join her. Tentatively, Sansa walked into the living room but she opted to stand rather than sit. “I received a call today that I thought might interest you.”

Sansa frowned. That was unusual. “Mmhmm?”

“It’s about your parent’s will. As you know, it was unfinished. Hence,” Cersei gestured around them, “the peculiar situation regarding the custody of you and your siblings.” She took a long drink. “Anyway, apparently, their lawyer had called your half-brother yesterday, about his inheritance because he’s almost eighteen… and he noticed that you are… what? Sixteen now?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen. He noticed you are fifteen and was calling to let us know that upon your eighteenth birthday, you will receive a sum of money. Now, he didn’t get into specifics, but he insinuated that this sum would be quite large.”

Cersei rose and began to walk slowly into the kitchen. Sansa was stunned. and then it hit her. “Did you say he called Jon? Does that mean he knows were Jon is? Or Robb? Or...”

Cersei sighed. “Oh, I don’t kn—”

“Can you call him back? He coul—”

“Darling, he called me on my work phone. He didn’t leave a number.” Cersei shook her head.

“But—”

“Anyway,” Cersei stopped next to Sansa and took her face into her hand. “what I meant to tell you is that when you come into this money, you would be smart to remember who it was that took care of you over these past four years.” Cersei smiled, flashing her teeth. She patted the side of Sansa’s face and stalked back into the kitchen.

Sansa’s heart beat wildly in her chest. She wasn't even thinking of the money. It was her brothers. This lawyer had talked to her brothers. Every emotion that she had worked so hard pushing down was suddenly bubbling to the surface.

“Now,” Cersei’s voice rang out. “What should we have for supper?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha only a whole month late


	4. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the new got episode came out three days ago and i have a Lot of opinions. but chiefly among them is the fact that bran is one dramatic ass motherfucker and i love him for it

She awoke before dawn as she always did. Almost as soon as Arya’s eyes were open, her feet were slipping over the side of her bed and onto the smooth hardwood floor. She was careful to avoid that one spot which always creaked. She dressed quickly. She didn’t bother with her school uniform, she wouldn’t be going anyway.  A white t-shirt. Sweatpants. And a baseball cap. It didn’t have to match. It just had to look clean.

Arya was shouldering her bag and heading out the door before Ms. Crane was even awake. It was a good arrangement. Less trouble for the both of them. As she closed the heavy red door, she looked up to the bright moon shining over the peninsula. Here, it always seemed to gleam in a way it never had back home. Perhaps, it was the weather. Clouds didn’t blot out the sky so much in Gibraltar.

She practically flew down the stone steps. Her path was well-trodden. She had taken this route so many times over the past few years, she was almost sure that her feet had made indents into the pavement. Even if she didn’t know the way so well, the moonlight was enough to see by.

It was about a four-kilometer run from the apartment to the library. On good days, she could make it there in twenty minutes. She glided down the slopes of the empty alleyways and easily maneuvered the barren streets. Her bookbag bounced every time her feet slammed against the pavement.  She turned north onto the main road when dust began to billow at her feet. As she paused before changing course, Arya noticed that sweat had begun to bead on her hairline. She wiped it away. A pimple would probably form there within the next few days. She cared about that more than she would ever admit. It was one more reminder that she was getting older— and still wasn’t home.

Though it was now September, the heat of summer lingered on the peninsula. It never seemed to dissipate. The coldest nights rarely dipped below 10 degrees Celsius. When the locals bundled up, Arya donned t-shirts and longed for snowfall.

She stopped for a breath, leaning against a large rock on the side of the road. It was a boulder that had rolled down from the cliff hanging up above. The monkeys liked to hang around here. Tourists didn’t venture this far south and the road didn’t see much traffic. A few of them stopped to investigate. They were always awake and searching for their breakfast by the time she was on the road.

She pulled an energy bar from her bag. She’d forgotten to zip the pocket so it was a surprise that it hadn’t jostled out. Tearing the wrapper open with her teeth, she offered a piece of granola to a monkey that had paused in front of her. Typically, feeding them wasn’t allowed. It was something tourists got in trouble for every day. But no one was around and she couldn’t see the harm in indulging them just this once.

That was her inner Sansa, as she had dubbed it. Arya had spent so long hating her sister. For being older. For being the “responsible one”. For every shake of their mother’s disappointed head. It took years of being alone, without 3 older siblings at her back, for her to realize that Sansa wasn’t evil. Their rivalry wasn’t her fault. At least not entirely. Her sister was a person. A person she didn’t know if she was ever going to see again.

So, when she gave a hungry monkey something to eat or helped the librarians restock the books, Arya thought of her older sister. She tried to remember the way her nose curved and how her red hair sat on her shoulders— a carbon copy of their mother’s. She clung onto that image.

That was the case with every one of her siblings. She thought of Robb’s thick curls when she stood up to a bully. She remembered Jon’s grey eyes— so much like her own— when she felt like she was completely alone in the world. She saw Bran climbing with his careful hands when she hiked along the Rock of Gibraltar. Every little boy on the street seemed to laugh just like Rickon. It was these small moments that reminded her of the five other people on Earth who knew exactly what she was feeling.

By the time she and the monkey had finished eating, the sun was rising. Its light replaced the moons. Bolder and brighter. She pulled a pair of sunglasses from her bag and started her run once again. She wanted to make it to the library before hoards of tourists flooded the streets. After that, it was impossible to navigate with any sort of efficiency.

The hustle and bustle was alive and well in the city. The locals had risen, heading to their jobs bright and early. A few tourists groggily wandered the streets, hoping to escape the crowd. Tourism had begun the slow with the end of summer, but a few wayward Americans (with far too much money to spend) persisted. Arya glanced at them with their Hawaiian shirts and cameras dangling around their necks. It was a warmer version of the weeks the Stark family would spend on holiday at Winterfell.

The big old house had been in the family since the first Brandon Stark. Every winter, like clockwork, Ned and Cat would shuttle their children north to the historic home. They always arrived on the first day of Chanukah. That night, while all their friends in Edinburgh readied themselves for Christmas, the Stark children would light the menorah with their father. Arya was sure there was a home video of her and Sansa sitting on their older brothers’ laps whilst Ned and a very pregnant Catelyn sang Maoz Tzur. Those little moments had always been her favorites.

She pushed open the back door of the Gibraltar Garrison Library just as the first wave of tourists emerged from their hotels. The library technically didn’t open until after eight, but one of the librarians had not-so-subtly mentioned to her that the employee entrance remained open after hours. Arya was unsure why she had said this. Trust? Pity? Who’s to say? But she’d learned she had to take what she could get.

The sun’s early beams filtered in from the windows. She pocketed her sunglasses. None of the employees had arrived yet. Arya made her way over to the computers and took her usual place at PC number four. She typed in her card number and began the long wait. The computers weren't exactly high tech. It would take at least fifteen minutes for the thing to boot up and then another fifteen for Arya to actually be able to use it. She tapped her fingers on the desk and sighed.

Quiet mornings made her restless. They'd been few and far between over the past four years. On the streets, there were no quiet mornings. There was nothing but bruised shins, bloody knuckles, and rumbling stomachs. Before Ms. Crane took her in, she’d start her mornings with a kick in the side and an angry scream to find somewhere else to sleep.

But if she had to look at her experience on the peninsula as one picture and point out her favorite part, she would still stick her finger on the back alley fights of last year. She’d say: _“Here. Here, I was feeling pretty okay._ ”

Only a few of the kids living on the street went to school. Most were enrolled, yes, but it is unsurprisingly easy to skip when you’ve no permanent home. Besides, they’d had to worry about where to get their next meal. No one was particularly concerned about how to solve an equation.

On days where they weren’t working odd jobs or taking a shift at that one shady cafe, some of the kids had taken to fighting. It was light-hearted— for the most part. At the very least, no one got killed. Arya thought it created camaraderie.

So, they wrapped their hands in rags, weaving the cloth between their fingers. They bounced on their toes. They held their tiny fists in front of their hardened faces. The boys copied their favorite MMA fighters, trying to swing their legs and throw their arms in the same way that men did. Arya copied her brothers. She moved fast and light on her feet the same way she’d seen Robb and Jon move on a football pitch. It was little more than a way to get the pent up energy out. It was fun.

But she stayed with Ms. Crane now. In exchange for a bed and a hot meal, Arya promised to stay out of trouble and bring home a little bit of money each month. That was easy enough. She worked at the shady cafe as a busser. It wasn’t technically legal. Everything was off the books. But Arya was hardly bothered by that. This arrangement was vastly preferable to the abandoned buildings that had previously served as her accommodations. Ms. Crane’s tiny condo would even outrank the home of the wealthy couple who had brought her here. Her adoptive parents.

Though her life had gotten a bit easier, she missed the boys from the streets. They had taken her in. Treated her as one of their own. She hardly ever saw them now. Gibraltar only seemed to get lonelier. 

The computer pinged. Arya opened Mozilla Firefox. Almost instinctively, she typed in the URL of one specific news article with the headline:  _Powerful Scottish MP, Burned Alive_

The report recounted in excruciating detail the fire that had led to her parents’ deaths. The journalist reminisced about Ned Stark’s public service and pondered about what was to happen without him. He was seen by his countrymen to be the voice of Scotland. He was the thin line between them and British tyranny. Scots love him. They loved his family. They loved his children. They even loved his British wife.  The fire sparked fear. No one would be able to replace Ned Stark.

The article ended bluntly with a single paragraph about the Stark kids:

 

_Ned and Catelyn Stark’s six children were found sitting on the edge of the property. When authorities arrived, they were ushered quickly from the scene of the fire. The children were said to have been in a state of panic and confusion, but otherwise unharmed. It is unclear at this time what will become of them._

 

Arya reread the article every day. She forced herself to remember that night so that she wouldn’t sink into a state of comfortability. She needed to return home. This place wasn’t where she belonged. That final sentence replayed over and over in her head. It haunted her. She constantly wondered to herself, what _had_ become of them? Four years later, and she still didn’t know.

She was near obsessed with the idea of finally returning home. The fixation had only increased now that she had a secure home. Every morning when she woke she wondered where her family was. Every night, before her head fell down on the pillow, she imagined what it would be like to reunite with them.

She closed out of the article. Then, ever so methodically, she searched the names of each one of her siblings, scanning for news of them. She would take even the slightest clue as to where they could be. It was slow process, requiring her to filter through page after page about the fire. There were days when she was tempted to accept defeat. But the tiniest things gave her hope. The last hit had come three months prior; it was a blurb on the website of some American school district. It lauded the academic achievements of Brandon Miller.

It had almost slipped through Arya’s fingers. She wasn’t concerned with some American stranger. But the attached image was striking. The image showed just the top of a leg brace. The boy had a half-smile and unmistakably Tully blue eyes glued to his face. She knew that face. It wasn’t Brandon fuckin’ Miller. _That_ was Bran Stark.

She had wanted to cry. Her brother was in some town in America that she’d never even heard of. He was across an ocean and yet, he was right there on her screen. She knew she couldn’t give up just yet.  

Recently, it had been the forums and message boards that had piqued her interest. There seemed to be a page for every topic imaginable. She’d found a quite a few dedicated to finding lost family, but most of the posts regarded siblings that were separated at birth. She poured through post after post searching for a message left by one of her siblings.

One message, in particular, caught her eye. It was from a young woman claiming to have found her sister through an entirely different site. Arya clicked the link.

After a relatively brief loading screen, she was greeted with a white page covered in bright text. At the top in bold blue font was written, “The Seeker, Reuniting The World!” That sounded promising. Below the main menu were thousands upon thousands of messages from people the world over asking about missing siblings, parents, and friends.

She found the button for families and clicked. There was a short form with lots of drop-down menus. Choose a subcategory. _Seeking a missing sibling._  She quickly filled out all the necessary information and hit enter. The site loaded line by line. She waited patiently only to see the words: _Your search query returned no results._ Well, that was discouraging.

The library would be opening soon and when it did, she’d need to head out for a shift at the cafe. She was already overdue in paying Ms. Crane. She couldn’t afford to miss work again. But she liked this site. She wouldn’t let herself leave without leaving a message there. She typed out a post.

 

_My name is Arya. I’m 13 years old. I live in Gibraltar, but I’m originally from Scotland. When I was 9 my parents died in a fire and me and my siblings got separated. I have 2 older brothers, 1 older sister, and 2 younger brothers. My older brothers would be 18 and 17 now. Their names are Robb and Jon. If you know them please email me. arry1992@yahoo.com_

 

Send post. It joined the others in a massive sea of messages. She logged off the computer and spun around in her chair. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. The library must have already opened. A few patrons wandered between the shelves.

On her way out, she glanced at the short-haired librarian now sitting at the front desk. She smiled slightly and quietly bounded out onto the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! some notes
> 
> 1\. this is the chapter where you're starting to see my jewish!starks headcanon! yay! it is absolutely my favorite modern day headcanon for the stark fam. i believe it originated on tumblr (an explanation post here: http://jewishstarks.tumblr.com/post/161528317565/why-are-the-starks-jewish-a-masterpost )
> 
> 2\. arya is one of my favorite characters of all time and i absolutely love her. there is so so much that i want to do with her in this fic and i didn't even no where to begin
> 
> 3\. the reason this chapter took a little bit longer to get out is because the school year is coming to an end so i have a bunch of exams and such. its been a really hectic past couple a weeks. that will wind down in a bit and all will be well
> 
> that's all folks. enjoy your day!


	5. Bran (+ Rickon)

Bran rubbed along the top of his thigh, digging the heel of his hand into the muscle. His legs were throbbing again but that wasn’t exactly unusual. He didn’t feel much of anything. Not really anyway. It was little more than a dull ache and the pounding of his own circulation.

He ran his fingers through his auburn hair, pushing it out of his eyes. A gust of wind came through and it flopped down over his face again. It was getting long like it had been when he was younger. He made a mental note to cut it soon.

The porch swing swayed gently in the breeze as the wind chimes sang. Bran brought a glass of iced tea to his lips and watched Rickon played in the field. The young boy had snatched one of the grown cobs of corn was and picking off the pieces to feed to the birds. He dropped the tiny bits of corn after him when he walked, enticing the winged creatures to follow him around. They devoured piece after piece until little Rickon had suddenly become the joyous leader of a flock of five grackles. Bran watched in amusement.

Rickon seemed to like it here. The boys lived in on a small farm in central Missouri. It was one of America’s farming states that Bran hadn’t even heard of until he’d moved here. Compared to Scotland, the States were torture. The summers were too hot. The food was too sweet. Everything was too far apart. He longed for the snowy months spent at Winterfell, launching snowballs at Arya, hearing his father’s loud and rare laughter, curling up with his mother and listening to Sansa sing while Jon played the piano.

He wondered if Rickon even remembered those stolen moments. He had only been three years old when their parents died. At most, Ned, Catelyn, and all their siblings were a faded memory. He’d be able to put names to faces, but if asked to recall the person behind the name, he’d be at a loss for words. Hell, Bran himself sometimes forget little things. It was a horrifying realization that his childhood was succumbing to the passage of time.

Bran took a long drink of his sweet tea and stood up. He leaned against the railing that lined the porch. He gripped the rail for support as he watched Rickon continue his game with the birds. He wished that he could run out and play with his little brother— but of course, that was only a fantasy. He was lucky that he could even walk.

After his fall, the nerve damage in his legs had left him unable to move anything below the waist. The doctors told him he would never walk again. But after intensive and grueling physical therapy, he was able to get around with the help of leg braces. Even still, Bran wanted nothing more than to run and climb and play.

“Bran!” Rickon shrieked, scaring the birds away. The little boy sprinted up to Bran and climb on his hands and knees up the steps of the porch. “Where’s Osha? Is she with the cows? Bran let's go see the cows?”

Osha was the hired help of Bran and Rickon's adoptive parents, Joren and Sofina Miller. Joren brought Rickon along as he tended to the crops while Osha cared for the cows and chickens closer to the family home. Sofina ran the business from their living room. Bran didn't really feel as if he had a role on the farm. He wasn't able to do the worked required of the fields. While he might been interested in the finances of the farm, Sofina preferred to work alone. So he ended up spending most of his with Osha. He gave the chickens their feed. He collected eggs and brushed the cows. Mostly, he hung around for Osha's stories.

She was from Scotland too. Some small town in the Scottish Highlands, much farther north than Edinburgh or even Winterfell. She had come to America the same year the boys had and Bran loved listening to her talk about home. It was easy. When Joren, Sofina, or anyone from his school told him stories, he was forced to stop them and ask where in the massive country a particular state or city is. It seemed like everyone but him instinctively knew all the minute differences between Minnesota, Massachusetts, and Mississippi. Americanisms did nothing but confuse him. With Osha, he felt at home again. Hearing her familiar Scottish accent was like sitting by the fire with his family.

Rickon grabbing is hand and began to pull. “Let's go see Osha! Let's go! Before Mommy and Daddy come home!”

Bran made his way down the steps as Rickon darted across the field in the general direction of the. His heart sank a little— just as it did every time he heard Rickon call Joren and Sofina “Mommy” and “Daddy”. It had taken a couple of years for Rickon to warm up to them, but once he had, the flood gates were open. It was as if Ned and Cat never even existed.

Bran thought back to when Rickon was born. The Stark clan had gathered in Cat’s hospital room, gazing in awe at the new baby. Robb and Jon stood in the back, grinning, but not in the awestruck way Sansa, Arya, and Bran were. The boys were nearly eleven and had been through the whole baby thing before. Ned sat beside his wife, Sansa on his lap. His finger was caught in Rickon’s tiny grasp. He pushed back Catelyn’s long, tousled hair. Bran had been perched with Arya at the end of their mother’s hospital bed. He remembered Cat whispering something about this being the last one. Rickon had been so small and quiet against Cat’s breast. So unlike the wild boy he had become.

Osha turned around just in time to see Rickon barrel past her and into the barn. Bran shuffled over to her. She had been hosing off the exterior walls. A thunderstorm had come through a few days ago and mud had splashed up onto the siding. She switched off the hose.

“He wanted to come see the animals,” Bran said. “It never seems to get old to him.”

“He’s a boy. Cows and chickens and pigs might as well be the most interesting thing in the world.” Osha inspected the walls as she talked. Finding them clean enough, she began to wrap up the hose.

“I think he’s bored of school already. He’s been playing outside all weekend.”

Osha hummed. She hung the hose up. “He’s trying to get his fill,” she supposed. “It’s getting colder. The days are getting shorter—”

“Winter is coming.”

She looked to him with a nod. “Yes.”

“Do you think we’ll get snow this year?” Bran asked, following her as she walked into the barn.

“Doubtless. They’re saying— Rickon!” She called up to Rickon in the loft. He was throwing hay down onto the heads of the cows and horses. “You stop that! How’d you like it if I threw hay onto yer head? Hmm? Get down here!” She sighed and headed towards the back exit of the barn. Bran followed. “Anyway. There’s ‘posed to be lot-a-snow this year. You remember back in… no. No. Yer too young to ‘member. Well, back in the old country, ‘92 I think it was, there was a huge snowstorm. A blizzard. We’re ‘posed to get ‘nother of those big storms this year. Least that’s what I heard.”

Bran nodded along. He had seen many snowy days. More than he could count. He wondered how much snow they would actually get. “When’s this blizzard supposed to come?”

Osha pushed open the back door to the barn. The chicken coop sat right there. She began to grab eggs from the nesting boxes. “Oh, I don’t know. December? That’s nice, innit?” She looked back at him. “Right ‘round Christmas time?”

“I’m Jewish.” Bran smiled. “And so are you.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I know, boy. It would make your folks happy though. To have snow on Christmas.”

“Chanukah starts on Christmas this year. Snow during Chanukah is always nice.”

“Aye, it is.” Osha had filled her basket with eggs. She turned around to head back into the barn, catching Rickon by the shoulder just as he came running out. “Yer folks’ll be getting back from the cattle auction soon.” She swiped pieces of hay out of Rickon’s hair. “We better go wash up.”

  
  


Though Osha lived on the farm, she did not eat with the Millers. That was her own preference. So, when Joren and Sofina returned home, Osha waved Bran goodbye and retreated to her own tiny home on the property.

Bran sat in the living room, watching T.V. as Sofina and Joren prepared dinner. The process was long, for Joren and Sofina only cooked with fresh ingredients that they had grown themselves. It was admirable, sure, but it made Bran crave sweet things.

When Sofina called the boys in for dinner, Bran switched off the television and silently made his way to the table. Rickon clambered up onto the chair next to him. While Bran poked at his food, Rickon immediately began scarfing down everything on his plate.

“So, how was your day today?” Sofina asked, cheerily.

Rickon began blabbering on about the birds and the cows and how he’d climbed up onto the loft. Sofina nodded along to every word. When Rickon paused for air, she turned to Bran.

“And how ‘bout you, sweetie?”

Bran shrugged. He knew she was just trying to be nice, but he didn’t really feel like talking. He never did.

“Brandon, honey, you’ve been so upset lately.”

Usually, she’d leave him be when he was silent. She rarely pressed him.

She tried again. “Bran, will you please talk to us?”

He sighed. “My brother’s birthday was last week.”

Joren raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Rickon’s birthday was in August.”

Bran stared down at his plate. Joren often forgot about Bran and Rickon’s siblings. He preferred to imagine the boys as his own children with no ties to anyone else.

“My _older_ brother.” Bran enunciated.

Sofina ignored her husband’s blunder. “That’s nice,” she hummed. “Which brother was that? Jon or…” The second name escaped her.

“Robb,” Bran supplied, his tone sharp. “It was Robb’s eighteenth birthday.”

“Yes, of course.” Sofina, pushed her potatoes with her fork. “Sorry.” She added, embarrassed.

Of the two of them, Sofina had always been the easier one for Bran to deal with. While Joren didn’t even bother to learn the names of his siblings, Sofina at least made an attempt.

“May I be excused?” Bran asked, already pushing his chair back from the table.

Sofina frowned. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

“I’m not hungry,” Bran answered. It wasn’t the truth. But he couldn’t stand being with them any longer. They were even more insufferable than usual.

“Well, I guess if you’re not hungry—” Sofina still looked unsure.

“Thanks.” Bran stood up from the tabled and brought his plate over to the sink. He cleared it as quickly as he could, before bolting from the room.

He plopped down on the couch, grabbing his book from the end table. It was about Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight. It had been one of Sansa’s favorites when they were younger. But he found himself reading passage after passage and not retaining any of the words. His mind kept drifting off. He didn’t know why he’d felt the need to bring up Robb’s birthday. His eldest brother was eighteen. A grown up. He didn’t know why, but it felt important.

Rickon ran from the kitchen and up the stairs. He still had tomato sauce on his face. Bran watched him go.

“You would think that after four years things would’ve changed,” Joren said from the kitchen. He was talking to Sofina as they cleaned up after dinner.

“Well,” Sofina replied, “he misses his family. You can hardly blame him for that.”

They must’ve thought he’d gone upstairs. Bran closed the book and scooted to the edge of the couch. He wanted to get even closer, but if he stood, his leg braces might make a noise.

“ _We’re_ his family,” Joren countered, turning on the faucet. Bran strained to listen. “ _We_ clothe him. _We_ feed him. _We_ house him. Eddard and Catelyn stopped being his family the moment we adopted him.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“It is. I don’t care how many siblings they have across the pond, those are _my_ sons,” Joren huffed.

“You can’t force him to love you.”

“I just wish he would let go.”

Bran wanted to cry. He wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t. His family— his _real_ family— was all that mattered. He moved towards the stairs as quietly as humanly possible, but they must have heard him because they ceased talking. Bran tiptoed up the stairs, thinking of nothing but Scotland and snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm putting the boys in missouri because i live in missouri. yes. that is the reason. 
> 
> a note: the reason i'm not giving rickon his own pov chapter is because
> 
> a. he is 7 years old in this and i have really hard time righting in the pov of young children
> 
> b. he doesnt get pov chapters in the books (yes ik neither does robb, but robb has a cohesive character arc and rickon.. less so)
> 
> c. i wanted to mirror the book aka have bran and rickon stay together and it would be superfluous to have pov chapters in missouri
> 
> anyways, enjoy!


	6. Robb II

“You shouldn't do that,” Theon said pulling Robb's hand away from his mouth where he'd been biting at his nails. He sat down on the bench next to Robb, the black duffel bag at their feet.

Robb hummed. “Yeah, uhm, sorry.” He put his hand on his leg and scratched at his knee. There was a hole starting to form in his jeans. He picked at the exposed threads of the denim. The wind at the bus station was biting and the sweatshirt he’d borrowed from Theon wasn't enough to keep the chill off.

“You're gonna be fine,” Theon said.

“I know. But the whole 'going home’ thing came sooner than I thought. I don't think I'm ready.” Robb stared straight ahead, willing the bus to never arrive.

He’d ended up spending a week at Theon’s before his parents’ lawyer called, telling him to pack his bags. A woman, short and serious, had shown up at the flat the following day. She’d given him a key, a ticket, and an address.  

Theon sighed. “You were never going to be ready. That wasn't an option,” he said. Robb was silent. “You _have_ to go.” Theon flung an arm around him. “You've gotta know that as well as I.”

The last week had been sickeningly solemn. Robb had thought that leaving his foster parents would have him on cloud nine. But instead, he was left with the simple fact that he was going home to nothing and no one. When he got to Winterfell, there would be no welcome party. No Dad to clap him on the shoulder. No Mum to kiss his forehead. No Jon to stay up late with. And no little siblings to attack him with hugs.

A lump was forming in his throat. He swallowed thickly, whipping his head to Theon. “You know I'll come back, right?” he assured. “Or you can come to Scotland? This isn't it. This isn't—”

“I know.” Theon stood, his hair whipping in the wind. Robb's breath escaped him as the bus barrelled into the station. The crowd’s movements filled the space around them. Robb fought to ignore it. Ignore the noise that was itching at his brain. Ignore the commuters brushing around his shoulders. Ignore the exhaust billowing up from the bus. Ignore everything but the man standing in front of him. _He needed just a moment more. He wasn’t ready. He thought he was but—_ Theon looked to Robb and extended his hand. Robb was frozen where he sat. “Robb,” Theon’s voice cut through everything else. “This isn't it. But you need to go now. You need to find your family.” Theon trailed off, staring at the bus. His lips were pressed tightly together and his brows were creased.

Robb nodded once and shouldered his bag. He took Theon's hand and pulled him into a hug. Suddenly, the cold was gone. He wrapped his arms around Theon's neck and held on tightly. People pushed past them to step onto the bus. “You're my family too,” he said into Theon's neck. “You gotta know that.” He felt him nod. Robb pulled away, clinging to Theon's hand. Theon’s brows were knit together, but he managed a pained smile, corners of his mouth pulling upwards. His thumb brushed over Robb’s knuckles. Then, he let go.

The expression on Theon's face was too hard to see, so Robb turned away and forced himself not to look back. He was one of the last to board, his ticket suddenly very heavy as he handed it to the driver.

When he found a seat, his body crashed against the cushions like lead in water. He couldn't escape the feeling that he was losing yet another brother. He pushed his bag under the seat. As the vehicle began to inch away from the station, he brought one knee up to his chest and leaned his head against the window. The scenery on the other side of the glass pane was moving faster and faster.  He was leaving Belfast— and Theon— behind.

It was all he could do not to cry. He refused to let tears fall in front of all these people. He swallowed thickly. This was supposed to be a happy moment. He was supposed to be giddy. Why wasn’t he?

It was more than five hours before they finally reached Glasgow. The hum of the bus had lulled Robb into a half-conscious state. He was only sort of aware of where he was. At some point during the drive, he’d made the conscious decision to ignore his own upset feelings. The Stark’s golden boy had always been stellar at repressing his emotions. Besides, he had work to do.

The ten-minute walk from where the bus stopped to the train station felt good on his legs. The train hadn’t arrived yet when he found the platform, so he sat on a bench and waited. He must have looked up at the clock a million times in the short period he sat there. Fingers tapped anxiously against his knee as he resisted the urge to gnaw at his own bitten down fingernails. Staring at them, he pulled the sleeves of Theon’s sweatshirt down over his hands. His leg bounced. Every couple of minutes, a passerby peered at him funnily— or at least that’s what it seemed like. He had to assume that he looked like a nervous wreck.

By the time the train pulled up to the station, Robb was about ready to explode. Every second that he wasn’t moving closer to Winterfell, felt like a thousand years. It was no good to let his mind wander for that long.

The train was more comfortable than the bus. Though it was designed for long distance, the bus had confined Robb to a single seat for far longer than he wanted to be there. The train, however, allowed free movement within the passenger car, granting Robb the ability to release at least a bit of his nervous energy. Even still, it felt as if he was bouncing off the walls.

At one point on the journey, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted the door to the compartment open or closed. He’d cracked it open a bit to let some air in and the man sitting across from him, sat up straight, looked to where Robb had opened the door, grunted and shuffled his newspaper, before relaxing again. The whole sequence of events put Robb on edge. He felt as if he was being watched.

To make matters worse, no less than five minutes later, the ajar door suddenly made Robb feel too open, too exposed, and too vulnerable. He ached to shut the damn thing and be done with it, but the man was still sitting there, reading his paper and silently judging Robb’s every move.

Robb held his breath and quickly got up to close the door. When he sat down again, he swore that he could see the man’s face fold into the already deep frown lines on his skin. Then, within another five minutes, Robb was claustrophobic. The compartment was stuffy and he couldn’t breathe. He wanted air. He needed air. He needed to open the door. But he couldn’t move a muscle.

The man was just waiting for Robb to slip up again. He trained his eyes on a smudge on the window and grasped his knees in a vice grip. He held his breath and didn’t move again until they got to Aberdeen.

  
  
  


When the train came to a halt, he waited for the man to leave the compartment first. Then, in a single motion, he grabbed the duffel bag and bounded from the train. He didn’t stop walking until he was three platforms over. Leaning against a massive stone column, he breathed like he’d gotten punched in the stomach.

A woman with greying red hair placed a hand on his hunched over back and said, “You alright, dearie?” in a thick Scottish accent. His body tensed. Heavy breath caught in his throat and a hearty laugh escaped him. He could hardly remember the last time he’d heard a Scottish accent that wasn’t his own. It was familiar and warm. Her autumnal hair and comforting voice were wonderful. In that moment, Theon was forgotten. Robb simply enjoyed the pure bliss of being in his home country.

Tears pricked at his crinkled eyes as he struggled to catch his breath yet again. A smile was plastered on his face. He looked up at the woman and their eyes met. The woman looked concerned.

Realizing that people were staring, Robb swallowed and stood up straight, hastily assuring the woman that he was perfectly fine. He wanted to tell her that she looked like his mom, but that seemed like a bit much. So, instead, he cleared his throat, readjusted the bag on his shoulder, and walked calmly towards the exit, grabbing a map on his way out.

He ducked into the first alley he stumbled upon, opening the map and spreading it out over the brick that surrounded him. Holding the map flat with his forearm, he dug into his duffel bag, searching for a pen. Finding one, he yanked the cap off with his teeth.

Winterfell was barely even noticeable on the map. The grey font that spelled out its name blended in with the background. But Robb knew exactly where to look. He traced the roads 30 kilometers north of Aberdeen until he hit it. Drawing a star over the town, he smiled, the pen cap wobbling between his teeth.

He folded the map under his arm and threw the pen back into his bag., spitting the cap in after it. Emerging from the alleyway, he jogged until he was half in the road, holding his thumb out far.

Hitchhiking wasn’t ideal, but he didn’t want to waste what little cash he had on a taxi. He’d told the lawyer— Luwin, was his name— to hold off on transferring his inheritance. Robb would need to set up a bank account first and that would have to wait until he was settled at Winterfell. There was a process to these kinds of things.

So, he put on his prettiest, most bright-eyed smile. He wanted to look as non-threatening as possible. Most cars sped right past him. Some slowed down but never stopped. He tried his best to ignore the people who looked at him sideways.

Eventually, a town car that looked older than Robb pulled up right next to the curb. The owner of the thing cranked down the window.

“Where’re you headed?” the driver asked, squinting at Robb.

Robb coughed. “About 30 kilometers north of here? Winterfell.”

The driver nodded slowly, scratching at his beard. “Okay, kid,” he said with finality, motioning to the passenger’s seat. “Go ‘head and get in. It’s a little outta my way, but I’m a Christian man, so I’ll make it work for ya.”

Robb grinned and thanked him, hurrying over to the passenger’s side of the car.

Aberdeen wasn’t a big city, so within ten minutes, the car was on its way out of town. Robb knew that he’d be at the Stark home before the sun had gone down. Nervousness bubbled up inside him.

“What’s your name kid?” the man asked.

“Robb,” Robb replied, shortly. He didn’t know if he’d be able to hold a conversation right then.

“Got a last name?”

For a second, Robb considered fabricating a surname. He’d probably never see this man again, and it might be fun to be someone else for a while. But then he realized he’d been quiet for longer than someone should be when they are asked their own name. So he blurted out, “Stark,” feeling stupid.

Robb watched as the man’s face twisted with realization. “I don’t follow politics, but every Scotsman knows that name.” The man glanced to Robb. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong in assuming—”

Robb cut him off. “You’re not.”

A long breath left the man. “It was a damn shame to hear about your mother and father. And when you kids dropped off the face of the Earth… Well, none of us here knew what to think.” He paused for a moment, clearly hesitant. His voice low, he said, “Whatever happened to you lot?”

Emotions welled to the surface again. Robb choked on his own breath. He stayed quiet because he knew that if he tried to talk about it, he would cry.

“Kid,” the man said. “I’m sorry. It can’t be easy to talk about.” Clearly trying to move on he said, “You going to Winterfell for any reason? It’s a small place. Ain’t much to see.”

Robb was glad for the change of subject. “My parents had a house there. They, uh, they left it to me.”

“You got an address? I’ll take you right there. Save you some time.”

Robb turned to the man, eyes wide. Winterfell was small in size. Robb had planned on having the man drop him off at a petrol station and walking to the house from there. But the sun was low in the sky and the clouds were already bleeding orange and pink. It would be better to go straight home. “You would do that?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

The corner of the man’s mouth turned up. “Sure thing. Least I can do.”

Robb smiled. “Thank you. Really. It means a whole lot.” He gave the man the address of the house. Turning towards the windows with a smile on his face, Robb watched as the sun melted into the sky.

The man turned on the radio for the last leg of the trip. Old school rock played in the background as Robb looked out at Scotland’s rolling hills bathed in the last light of day. Winterfell drew nearer and nearer. And he yearned for it, even knowing that no one was there waiting for him.

Winterfell was surrounded on all sides by hills and grass and trees. It was much greener than he remembered. In his youth, the landscape had always been covered in a thick blanket of snow. But now, the cool September air left a mere dusting of frost over the terrain. The town center was populated by buildings that stood just centimeters apart. Most of the roads retained their old cobblestone surfaces. The car traveled roughly along them.

Just outside of town, the streets began to meander. They led to enormous and glorious houses owned by some of the oldest families in the country. They were spread far and wide. Each, the centerpiece of a massive parcel of land that went on for acres. The Stark’s historic home had been in the family for generations. Robb’s father had once told him once that the home had been built by his ancestor, Brandon the Builder, long ago. He had been the first Brandon Stark.

The family had moved to Edinburgh in the early 19th century, needing to be closer to the city and the outside world, but the home in Winterfell would always stay in the family, passed from father to son again and again. Robb took solace in the fact that it had not been _this_ house that burned.

Robb’s heart beat wildly against his ribcage as the car approached the house. It grew bigger and they came closer. It was even grander than Robb remembered. The car drove along the home’s circular driveway, stopping when it reached the center. Robb felt stuck to his seat.

“We’re here,” the man said.

Robb nodded, mouth slightly agape as he stared at the house looming over him. Keeping his eyes trained on the home, he reached into his bag and pulled out a twenty-pound note. He handed it to the man. “Take this,” he said. “Thank you. For everything.”

He pulled himself from the car, never tearing his eyes away from the massive building before him. Fiddling with the strap of his duffel bag, he stood before the house, barely registering the car pulling away. The door was a strong cherry wood with a carving of a running wolf etched into it. A brass door knocker hung heavy just beneath the wolf’s belly.

He felt like a little kid again. His vision clouded over. For a moment, he thought he saw young versions of himself and Jon, no older than five, dashing through the snow, cheeks all pink. Then, it was him and Sansa, toddling about as the first snowfall of the season poured down on them. After that, he, Jon, and their father were carrying in firewood. Jon was flashing a rare smile and Dad was laughing. Then it was Bran, climbing on the roof; Arya chasing down a rabbit; his mother holding baby Rickon against her chest; Sansa wrapping a scarf around a snowman; Jon, sprinting with Arya on his back; his father, sipping coffee and watching from the window.

Tears slipped down over his cheeks. He laughed wetly. That was stupid. He was being stupid. His family wasn’t here. Only he was. He let the tears fall unbidden as he walked up to the door.

He pulled the key the woman had given him from his bag. It slid easily into the lock. Robb turned it and swung the door open. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn that a gust of wind was sucked into the house. His teeth chattered. Not a soul had been inside for over four years.

The house was cavernous. He was afraid to step in. Forcing himself to move, he entered, flipping the light switch up. Then, down, then, back up. Still, no light. The chandelier that hung from the top of the two-story entry didn’t even make a flicker. Electric bills. That would need dealing with.

He frowned at the dry plant that sat next to the stairwell. The leaves crumbled instantly under his touch. The petals of long-forgotten flowers littered the floor around the pot. A quick glance down the hall confirmed that all his mother’s beloved house plants were long dead.

He sighed, traipsing down the hall, his eyes lingering on each picture that decorated the walls. Bran and Rickon as young children, fat and smiling. Jon holding Arya as a baby, a finger caught in her grasp. Sansa on her first day of school, hair in braided pigtails. His father holding two baby boys, one with red hair, one with black. A cloud of dust had settled quietly atop the frames of every one. He took care to wipe it off with his finger. His mother would not stand to have her photos tarnished by dust.

The lounge was dark and the setting sun didn’t provide much in the way of light. Dropping his duffel bag on the couch, he turned to the kitchen and searched the cabinet above the refrigerator for candles. They were there in abundant supply. He scooped up an armful of vanilla scented candles— his mum’s favorite— and placed them strategically around the room. A matchbook had been left in the kitchen supply drawer. He used it to light every last one.

By the time the sun had left the sky, the room was glowing from candlelight. Robb collapsed on the couch and stared at the empty fireplace. It was too warm and he was too tired to build a fire. His eyes drifted to the framed picture that hung just above the mantle.

It was a beautiful picture that had been taken just after Rickon was born. Catelyn sat with the baby in her arms, a shining smile on her face. Ned was just behind her, a sure hand on her shoulder. Robb and Jon were on either side of them, each holding onto a sister. Bran, just four years old at the time, sat in front of them all. The portrait had captured the entire Stark family in a moment of happiness. They had simply been enjoying each other's company.

Robb stared at it. His gaze moved from one face to another before finally settling on his own. He had been young then. Eleven? Twelve? The smile on his face was foreign to him now. He sank back into the couch cushions, his eyebrows knitting together. He bit his lip, letting out a shaky breath.

It came all at once. He bent forward, body overtaken by gasping sobs. His lungs struggled for air as he quivered. He shook with the intensity of his own cries. His hands trembled. He tried to wipe away the tears, but they came quicker than his fingers could move. He curled in on himself, rocking back and forth as he cried his eyes out.

He was home, yes, but it wasn’t the same. _It would never be the same_ , he realized, convulsing with horror. He was supposed to be the responsible one. But when the six of them had sat in that room at the police station, their parents dead to the world, he had let them get separated. He hadn’t stopped them when they pulled a tearful Sansa away. He hadn’t moved a muscle when they led Bran and Rickon into another room. When they had dragged Arya away, kicking, screaming, and clinging onto Jon like he was the only thing keeping her alive, Robb had stayed still, hoping it was all a dream. _It was his fault_ , he thought, wheezing. He hadn’t been able to save his parents and he hadn’t been able to save his siblings. The guilt ate away at him.

Eventually, no more tears came. His eyes were puffy and red. The flush from his face had spread down to his neck and chest. Teardrops dried against his cheeks as the last few tearful gasps escaped him. He crumpled against the cushions, boneless and exhausted. His breath shuddered.

Robb looked at the candle on the coffee table, blinking. His cheek was pressed into the couch cushion. He pulled Theon’s sweatshirt tightly around him. The room was warm and comfortable. The scent of vanilla, thick and hazy. He started to feel himself drift away.

In the last few seconds of consciousness before sleep, Robb thought of the fire that had killed his parents. He remembered the way he’d sat completely still while Jon screamed at the officer who told them Ned and Cat were dead. He remembered the hollow feeling in his chest. He remembered how they’d assured him that there was no foul play— it was simply a candle that someone had forgotten to blow out. As his mind left him, Robb breathed in vanilla, half hoping the fire would take him too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> our boy is struggling


	7. Jon II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a whole lot later than expect and i apologize for that. but also, this chapter is over 5000 words! longest so far i believe.

The moon hung high and full in the sky. Jon could see the edge of it through the top of his bedroom window. It was surrounded by stars, twinkling happily. Clouds drifted in and out of view. He sat up on his bed, facing the window with his pillow held tightly to his chest, chin rested on his knee. 

He closed his eyes and let himself think of home. Arya’s face came to mind. He thought back to when she was born. He was just shy of four years old when she came into the world. Even back then, he had trouble sleeping through the night. So, he’d wander into her room and sit in front of her crib for hours, just watching. She was so tiny. He’d looked on in amazement as she tightened her little baby fists. She would stare back at him with her big grey eyes. Deep and dark enough to be mistaken for black. So much like his own.

He remembered the way those same grey eyes welled up with angry tears after the fire. He’d tried his best to keep her calm, but when the officer announced to them that Ned and Catelyn were dead, his own anger boiled over. He’d yelled until his throat was raw. Then, his siblings were taken from the room one by one. Arya had screamed bloody murder when the social worker tried to take her away. She’d clung to Jon for dear life, leaving angry red marks with her fingernails. With the assurance that they’d see each other again very soon, Arya was pulled away from him, wheezing and crying. That was over four years ago. He hadn’t seen her since.

Jon rubbed at the bruise that was forming high on his cheekbone. It barely hurt anymore. At most, there was a dull ache under the surface of his skin. Thorne had given him the mark yesterday with a mean backhanded slap. Granted, he’d deserved it. He’d been mouthy and blatantly disrespectful. That, he would admit. It had been mere days since Thorne had taken over as head of the group home and Jon was becoming increasingly discontent. The distaste he had for Alliser Thorne was dialed up to eleven.

His mind drifted yet again to the thought of running away. It was a terrible thing to think about— leaving the group home behind. He had friends here. Jeor Mormont had always been kind to him. It would spoil his memory to bolt as soon as things soured. He could survive another two months, surely. If not for anything else, then for Sam. Samwell Tarly was the closest thing Jon had ever had to a friend. He was good. He didn’t deserve to be abandoned. Even if that meant enduring another two months of Thorne’s torment.  

But then, of course, there was Robb. There wasn’t a doubt in Jon’s mind that his brother had gone to the house up north. It only made sense. For the first time in over a year, Jon knew the exact location of one of his siblings. He had the means and the information necessary to reunite with his brother. The  £500 he had saved was plenty enough to get him to Winterfell. After that, he’d turn eighteen and get his inheritance. It would be easy to slip out in the night and never return. It would easy to leave it all behind. 

He huffed. Easy, but not honourable. Letting the pillow drop to the bed, he swung his body around, putting his bare feet on the floor. He pulled on a discarded t-shirt from the ground, pointlessly hoping that it was clean. Knowing that he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight, he got up. Navigating the stair came easily. He silently hopped over the steps he knew to be creaky. Reaching the bottom, he glided over the hardwood, avoiding the biggest noise offenders. Getting caught out of bed meant receiving another bruise for the other cheek. 

He craved fresh air. He made a bee-line for the back door, knowing that the front one would make an unacceptable amount of noise. The door sat snugly between the secondary stairway and the kitchen. Jon placed a gentle hand on the door’s handle, turning slowly. As he made the movement, a loud groan called out. He flinched. He screwed his eyes shut, turning his head away in preparation for a berating from Thorne. But it didn’t come. 

Confused, Jon opened his eyes and moved his head back. Frozen at the top of the stairwell stood Sam. A sigh of relief left Jon’s body. 

Sam was poised with one hand on the rail, a foot in the air, and his eyebrows shot up high. His eyes were as wide as plates. Jon almost laughed. 

“Sorry,” Sam whispered, just loud enough for Jon to hear. “I forgot that one creaked.” Sam was then unfrozen from his position. He navigated the noisy stairwell easily after that. Jon shook his head and smiled. He slipped out the door, leaving it ajar for Sam to follow after him. 

The back garden was a tangled mess of weeds and crabgrass. An old alder tree stood hunched over the brick patio. Jon shivered as the night air hit him. Summer’s warmth had disappeared. The hair on his arms stood up as he grabbed a chair from the patio table and sat. Behind him, the door closed and Sam looked at him, a sheepish smile on his face. Jon nodded to the chair next to him, gesturing for Sam to sit. 

He leaned back in his seat, tilting his head to see the sky. The moon shone down on his face. It’s grey-blue light danced over his skin. Jon closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. He could feel Sam looking at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Everything was quiet for a moment.

Sam broke the silence. “What’re you doing up?”

Jon gave a half-laugh. He opened his eyes and let the chair fall back into place with a dull thud. “I could ask the same of you.”

Sam grinned. “Pyp snores, you know.” Jon smiled, biting his tongue. Sam continued, “But you’re avoiding the question. Why’re you awake?”

The smile slowing dissipated from Jon’s face until he was sat looking at Sam with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. “I don’t know,” he said, finally. “Can’t sleep. Thinking too much.”

Sam looked at him long and hard. “Is it the money again? From your dad?” 

Jon shook his head. “No,” he said hesitantly. “Well, kind of? It’s complicated.”

“So, explain it to me.”

Jon looked to him, an eyebrow raised. Sam nodded insistently. Jon sat forward, elbows on the table. “You’ve got to promise not to tell anyone.” Mirroring Jon, Sam leaned in. He nodded his head once. Jon took a breath. “I know where my brother is. He turned eighteen last week. And I know where he went— I know it in my bones.” He ran his fingers through his curls. “I wanna go to him. I don’t know if I can wait any longer.” His voice was barely above a breath. The bruise on his cheek ached. “I have to leave.”

Sam’s mouth hung open. “You mean… Jon, are you talking of running away?”

Jon just stared at him. “I thought it’d be fine, but,” he rubbed at the mark on his face, “Thorne is relentless.”

Sam was looking everywhere but Jon’s face. He gripped the edge of the table, frown etched into his face. Jon thought that he looked much older than his seventeen years. Finally, Sam said, “So, go.” Jon arched an eyebrow. He didn’t know what to say. He gaped, astounded, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for words. Sam smiled. “You look like a fish when you do that.”

Jon snorted. “I… I…,” he sputtered. 

“I’m serious, though,” Sam said. “What’s stopping you? It’s not like you’d be wandering aimlessly. You’ve  _ got  _ a destination.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You either leave now, or you leave in two months. It’s the same outcome either way.”

“What about you?” Jon said, his voice thin. 

Sam looked at him, a smile forming on his lips. “I think I’ll get on without you, mate. I’ll be eighteen within the year.”

Jon cast his eyes downward. “I’m gonna go, aren’t I?” Sam nodded. His voice was high and thready, little more than a whisper. “I’m scared.” He chewed his lip. “Is that weird?”

“I think it’d be weirder if you weren’t.”

Jon stood up, abruptly, knocky the chair to the side. He ran both his hands through his hair, gripping roughly at his own curls. His eyes were wide and his heart was beating wildly in his chest. “I have to go.”

Sam looked up at him, head cocked to one side. “Now?”

He rubbed at the back of his head, not making eye contact. “I think so, yeah.”

“Like, right now?”

He nodded and began to pace up and down the length of the patio. “I think that if I don’t go now, I won’t ever go. Does that make sense? I hope that makes sense.”

Sam shifted in his seat, turning his whole body to look at Jon. “Do you even know where you’re going? Did that lawyer give you an address?”

Jon shook his head. “No,” he said, “But, I mean, I’ve been to Winterfell a million times. I don’t remember the address exactly, but I know that town like the back of my hand. I’d just need to get there.”

He crossed the patio, wild eyes set on the door. His hand grasped the handle, but he did not turn it. Instead, Jon looked to Sam. He’d leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on knees. Eyebrows turned upwards, his eyes looked heavy and sad. He’d twisted his frown into a sort of smile— but it was too tight to show real happiness. Jon’s chest panged. His hand lifted off the door handle. He left it hovering there.

“Jon,” Sam said. “Go on. Before the others wake.” He nodded to the door. “Go to your brother. Find your sisters. Your family.” He shrugged half-heartedly, glancing around as he did. “Do what you need to do. I’ll do the same, in time. And when we’re done, and happy, and have found peace, then we can find our way back. In a year or two, perhaps.”

Jon stared at his hand, floating just above the door handle. His bottom lip quivered and he willed himself not to cry. In a sudden movement, he lurched towards Sam, seizing his friend into a bear hug. It was at an odd angle, requiring Jon to bend forward awkwardly to wrap his arms around the sitting Sam. But Jon couldn't have cared less. 

“Tell Ed where I’ve gone. And Pyp. And Grenn too,” He said, pulling away. Sam smiled, nodding. Jon took a deep breath and walked inside. 

  
  


He bounded up the spiral staircase as fast as he could whilst remaining (almost) silent. Quite honestly, he was surprised that no one burst into his room to shout at him for making so much noise at two in the morning. He supposed that was one of the perks of having a room so far away from the others. He wordlessly thanked Mormont for giving him the turret room. 

Packing was simple enough. He reached under his bed and grabbed the black duffel bag that retained the things of his that had survived the fire. He’d outgrown the shoes, clothes, and ice hockey skates years ago. The football didn’t really matter to him. Then, there was the Harry Potter book.  _ Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire _ — it wasn’t his favorite. (He’d forever swear by the Prisoner of Azkaban as the best in the series, no matter what Robb thought.) But he decided to keep it anyway, pressing the book to the edge of the bag.

Then, he stuffed the thing full of clothes. He packed the jar of cash on top, reasonably tucked under a t-shirt, so that he’d be able to access it easily without drawing unwanted attention. He grabbed the letter from Mr. Luwin. When the lawyer had called, he’d left his number, which Jon had scrawled on the back of the letter. He folded the paper twice and tucked it in the bag. 

Jon stood, shouldering the bag and assessed his room. His ran his hand over the top of his armoire, checking for anything he might want to bring. His hand stalled. The postcard from The Old Bear’s funeral had been cast aside on the dresser. Jon picked it up, turning it over in his hand. A crease cut through Mormont’s photo, just below his nose where Jon had folded the card. He swallowed. Taking the card in both hands, he folded it again, in the same spot, and pressed it into the pocket of the duffel bag. 

Jon refused to look back as he shut off the lights and walked downstairs.

When he made his exit through the back door, Sam was nowhere to be seen. He must have gone back upstairs. Jon ran his hand over the metal chair that Sam had been sitting in. He smiled, eyebrows creased. Then, he rounded the house and leapt into the street. Perhaps it was a bit dangerous, but hardly any cars drove along that road this late at night. And he was already feeling rebellious.

He kept his feet in line as he walked, carefully striding with one foot after another. He stared upwards, with no regard for anything but the starlight on his face.  After about ten minutes, he came to the realization that he was wandering aimlessly. He sighed, stopping in the middle of the street. 

He found himself in a bit of a predicament. Perhaps he should have considered the logistics of this journey before he fled. Kicking a bit of loose pavement, Jon ran over his options in his head. He might have enough money for a plane ticket, but he wasn’t even sure where’d he go to buy one. The nearest airport was in all the way in Bristol. He could probably take a train north, but he’d have to wait until morning for that to even be an option. He looked up. The sky was still a deep and endless black, only slightly diluted by the warm glow of the street lamps. He sighed. 

A few streets over, cars hummed as they barrelled along the road. A gust of wind blew over him, whipping his hair out of place. He tucked a loose curl behind his ear. Tilting his head, he gazing back down the way he came. He was so far now, he couldn't even see the horrible house. 

He walked over to the misshapen bench next to the bus station. The bench was sunken into the ground; only one side of the thing was useful. This was the last stop on the bus line. He wondered why it even went this far in the first place. Sitting on the miserable looking bench, he buried a hand in his hair. 

The stop itself was nothing more than a sign, the bench, and a patch of dirt. There was a crushed beer can left on the ground. Jon couldn’t believe he was considering it, but, in that moment, taking the bus seemed like the only viable way to skip town. He kicked at the beer can and it clattered hollowly. He’d never even seen a bus stop here. He didn’t know where it went or how far or how long it would take. He only knew that he wanted to leave. 

He let himself fall back against the hard plastic of the bench. He shrugged off the duffel bag and pushed it under his head, letting his arms dangle. The wind blew again, harder this time, forcing his hair into his face. He didn’t bother to brush it away. He just closed his eyes and thought of Robb.

He wondered what his older brother looked like now. Jon rubbed at his chin and wondered whether Robb might have a beard now. Would he be taller? What might his hair look like? More importantly, would he still act the same? Would _ Jon _ still act the same?  _ Certainly not _ , Jon thought. It’d been so long. They were practically men, now. Things were going to be different. Jon swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for that. 

In his head, all his half-siblings were frozen in time. His image of them hadn’t changed even though he knew that  _ they _ had. When they were kids, he and Robb were so close. Barely three months apart in age, they were practically twins. But it had been nearly a year since they’d last spoken and even longer since they’d seen each other. Jon couldn’t bear the thought of things not being the same between them.

Luckily, he didn’t have to. A painfully bright light appeared from far up the road and it was only getting closer. Jon sat up, screwing one eye closed and holding a hand on his brow to protect his eyes from the glaring light. He was actually rather surprised, he wasn’t expecting it to come at all. As the bus came to a stop, a loud, jarring groan was released from its underbelly. Jon grimaced.

The thing was a dark purplish-blue color with chipping paint. Its white accents had been stained grey with exhaust. It was an old-fashioned style that wasn’t much seen anymore. It reminded Jon of the Knight Bus. 

The doors opened with a creak. The driver, an only woman looking to be in her 60s or 70s, peered at Jon over the top of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He sprung into action, grabbing some cash from his bag. Sealing the lid to the jar, he threw the strap of his bag over his chest and stood. 

Stepping onto the bus, he flashed a tight-lipped smile to the driver and paid the fare. He received threepence in change and was annoyed at the irregular rate. 

The driver didn’t wait for him to find a seat before she started moving. He barely caught his balance. His feat knocked into each other as he stumbled forward, grabbing a pole just before he fell. There was only one other passenger, a girl about his age with wild red hair. She laughed at his misfortune. 

He found a seat on the opposite side of the aisle as the girl. The driver drove fast and recklessly. He tried to find a comfortable position, but he was being jostled in his seat by the movement of the bus. He leaned his head against the window. Letting his eyes fall closed, he clutched his bag to his chest, one hand holding tightly onto the strap and the other mindlessly playing with the coin.

After a few minutes, he couldn’t escape the feeling that someone was watching him. He frowned and shifted in his seat. The feeling didn’t go away.

“Why’re you holding yer bag like that?” Jon opened his eyes. The red-haired girl was looking at him, her eyes shifting between him and the duffel bag in his arms. 

“What?” Jon said, face twisted with confusion.

“You think I’m gonna steal it or something?” Jon was still confused. “I’m not gonna steal it.” The girl tore her eyes away from him, smirking and sitting back in her seat. “Just so you know.”

“I didn’t think you were gonna steal it.” She brushed her thick hair out of her face, looking satisfied. 

“Good,” she said, turning away from him. 

About fifteen seconds passed before she turned back to him, her lips pressed tightly together. He stared at her with an eyebrow raised. Suddenly, she stood, shouldering her worn backpack and grabbing the handlebar above her head. She moved swiftly, gliding down the aisle until she was in the same row as him. She then plopped herself down in the pair of seats across from him, a huge smile on her face. Letting her backpack fall to the grimy floor, she sat with her back to the window, her legs extended out over the empty seat next to her. 

He could see the dirt stuck to her boots where the leather met the soles. Her blues jeans were ripped in about a million different spots. The branded sweatshirt she wore looked to be two sizes too big for her. 

“I’m bored,” she complained in a Scottish accent much thicker than his own. He wasn’t sure what she expected him to say so he remained silent and let his fingers play with the coin. She huffed. “What’s yer name, pretty boy?”

“Jon,” he said, looking at her wild hair.

She smiled, seemingly amused at his answer. “Wow,” she said, after a moment. “That’s, like, really boring.” She laughed. “There’s a million people out there with the same name.”

Jon frowned. “Well, I’m different.”

She raised an eyebrow, interested. “Yeah, how?”

“My name is spelt without the ‘H’.”

She laughed again, loud and bright. The driver glared at her through the rearview mirror, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Okay, sure,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm. “You’re different.”

“Well,” Jon pouted, “What’s your name?”

Her giggles stopped. “Ygritte,” she said, straightening her posture and turning her chin up. Then, it was his turn to laugh. He chuckled quietly, trying not to seem rude. She slumped forward, frowning. “What?” she asked, annoyed. 

“Oh, nothing. I’ve just never met an Ygritte before,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, “Weird.”

“It’s not!”

“It is a little bit,” he replied, holding up his pinched fingers, smiling. She

glared back at him. 

“So, Jon without an ‘H’,” Ygritte said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Where are you off t’?”

Jon sat there, sucking in his lips dumbly. Where  _ was _ he off to? He realized he didn’t know where the bus was headed. He looked to the map on the rounded ceiling above her. Lines were painted there, tracking all the stops along the route. At the very end was a stop in downtown London. He shrugged. “London, I guess.”

“You guess?” she said, an eyebrow arched. 

He nodded. “I guess.”

“What? Are you running away from home or something?” She let her head fall back against the window, a small smile on her lips. He noticed how her red hair contrasted nicely against the black of the night. 

“More like going home,” Jon answered. He looked her up and down. “Why? Is that what you're doing? Running away from home?”

She shook her head. “Nah. No home to run from. I’m visiting friends up north.” Her accent was heavy. Scottish, surely, but different from his own. 

“Where are you from?” he asked. 

A smirk appeared on her face. “You’d think one Scot would recognize another.”

He rolled his eyes, shifting in his seat to face her. He pulled his legs up onto the seats and mirrored her position. “I know you’re from Scotland.”

“Do you now?” she challenged. 

Ignoring that, he continued, “I meant, like, where in Scotland? You sound different than me.”

“I was born in Ullapool. But, I’ve moved around,” she gestured vaguely around her. “Clearly.”

He frowned, trying to remember where Ullapool was. It was up north, he knew. Further north than Winterfell. But the details escaped him. “I don’t think I’ve been there.”

She nodded, clearly unsurprised. “Yeah,” she said, drawing out the word. “It’s a small place. About a thousand people.” She didn’t make eye contact and her smile had faded. Jon got that feeling. Thinking of home was hard. After a moment, she said, “Where you from, then?”

“Edinburgh,” he said simply, rubbing the edges of the coin in his hand. That made her smile return. 

“Yeah,” she said, grinning. “That makes sense.”

He cocked his head, confused.  “W-wait— How does that? How does that make sense?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. You just seem like you’re from a big city, that’s all.”

He sputtered. “Edinburgh is hardly a big city.”

Her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. “ _ Hardly? _ ” she said, shocked. “Half a  _ million _ people live there.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it again, accepting defeat. 

Still, she continued. “Besides,” she said. “Edinburgh is so far south, you’re practically an Englishman.” 

He gasped in offense, his eyes going wide. His hands stilled. “You take that back!” He said, exasperated. She laughed heartily.

He threw the coin at her, missing, and hitting the window behind her head. The coin clinked off of it and clattered to the ground. It made little jerky hops as the bus sped down the road. That only made Ygritte laugh harder. She held her stomach as she did. Her cheeks and the tips of her ears turned pink as her lips were pulled tight by her smile. Her laughter showed off her teeth. They were a bit wonky, but Jon didn’t mind. He thought she was pretty when she laughed.

Her smile was contagious too. As she calmed herself down, Jon found himself looking at her, head tilted, grinning. She sat back against the window and look at him too. They stared at each other for a moment, smiling at nothing. 

“You’re going back there, then? To the big city?” Ygritte said, breaking the silence.

“No,” Jon replied, looking at his lap and fighting a grin. “I’m meeting my older brother in Winterfell.” 

Ygritte leaned back. She bounced her leg and asked, “Brother?”. 

Jon nodded. “Yeah. Name’s Robb.”

She turned her eyes up in thought. “Jon and Robb. Robb and Jon.” She paused to consider it and then looked to him. “Well, your mum wasn’t very creative, was she?”

“Well,” Jon mumbled. “Not the same mum, actually. We’re half-brothers.”

Ygritte perked up, interested. “Scandalous,” she joked, cocking her head. Jon half-laughed. “I don’t have any siblings,” she said. “No real siblings, anyway.”

Jon thought about what it would be like to be on an only child. It was a curious thought. He shooed it away. “I can’t even imagine. I have five. Three half-brothers and two half-sisters. The littlest would be—” he paused to think about how old Rickon was now, eyebrows knitting together. “Six? No. Seven. Rickon turned seven last month.”

Ygritte nodded. “Is it hard?” she asked. “To keep track of them all?” She pulled one knee up to her chest and played with the frayed edges of her jeans.

He thought about that for a bit. “Harder now,” he said. “Since we’re not all together anymore.” She looked confused, head tilted and eyes squinting slightly. “Our dad and—  _ their _ mum died in a fire a few years back. We haven’t seen each other since. Foster care system and all, y’know?” His voice was low and solemn. She nodded, lips pressed together. 

Then, her face twisted up in confusion. “Wait,” she said, thinking things through. She vaguely pointed to him. “That— that actually reminds me of something. A news story from a while back.”

He sighed. She was bound to realize eventually. “Have you ever heard of Ned Stark?” he asked, knowing the answer. 

She looked to him, taking it as a change of subject. “Of course. When my mum was still around, she used to say that if Scotland ever saw independence, it’d come from Ned Stark. But that was before he died in that—” Her eyebrows shot up at the moment of realization. All she said then was a quiet, “Oh.”

“He was my father.”

Ygritte nodded, eyes cast downward. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

He shrugged. “It’s all right. It was four years ago now. I’m practically over it.” He wasn’t. “Besides, it was an accident. There’s nothing anyone could have done.”

She looked at him with a  frown, her eyebrow raised high. “Accident?” she said, puzzled.

“Uh,” he tilted his head. “Yeah. Accident.”

She looked shocked. Her eyes were wide as she shook her head. “That’s not what I heard.” 

Jon’s face twisted into a severe and painful look. “What have you heard?”

For the first time since he’d met her, Ygritte looked caught off guard. “I don’t know,” she said, sputtering. “When it happened, I was only a kid, really. But I had older friends. They talked about how the fire wasn’t an accident. That it was set by someone who wanted Ned Stark— your dad— out of parliament” She shrugged. “I mean, it makes sense, though, doesn’t it? I don’t really follow the news, but politics can get messy.”

Jon’s nostrils flared. His eyes went wide. His head was spinning. _ It was an accident. _ He thought. _ It  _ had _ to be an accident. _ Catelyn had left one of her candles burning. That’s what the officer had told him when he’d cried out for an explanation. That’s what happened.  _ But I’ve never seen Catelyn leave a candle going,  _ his thoughts screamed at him. His stepmother had always been mindful of things such as that.  _ She would never let a flame sit overnight. Never. _ It just wasn’t like her. 

His breath quickened. _ No. _ He told himself. Catelyn was a person. People make mistakes. She made a mistake. She’d forgotten to blow out a candle and things went up in flames. That’s what happened. He forced all thoughts of arson and conspiracy down. He swallowed those ideas until they were no longer scratching at his brain, begging for attention. Yet, somewhere, deep from within, a little voice that sounded a lot like Ygritte whispered, _ It makes sense, though, doesn’t it? _

He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. Ygritte was looking at him oddly, her head tilted. “Jon?” she asked. “You all right?

He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah.” his voice came out too quiet. He coughed and repeated. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’d just never thought about that before.” 

He looked up at her. She was leaning towards him now, face hard with concern. The sun was beginning to rise through the window behind her. The sky was a flaming array of orange and pink and red. Day’s bright light shone on her head, lighting her fiery hair up with a glowing halo. She looked beautiful. Jon sucked in a breath. She was a good distraction from the thought of his father’s death. 

The moment was broken when she turned her head. Jon followed her gaze to the front of the bus. The vehicle was coming to a creaking halt. Ygritte turned back to him with a smile. “This is me,” she said, hastily grabbing something from her bag. 

All Jon said was, “Oh.” He was sad to see her go. She was fun. 

She held a scrap of paper against her knee and scrawled something, furiously. He came forward, facing her, planting his feet in the aisle. 

She stood, folding the paper. His eyes followed her, his mouth agape. Leaning down, she pressed the piece of paper into his hand. With her free hand, she took him by the chin, turning his head to the side so she could kiss his cheek. He felt himself go pink and breathless as her lips touched his skin. Standing up straight, she smiled at him, readjusting the bag on her shoulder. 

The doors of the bus whooshed open and she turned to walk toward them. As she did, she called back to him, “G’bye, Jon with no ‘H’.” And then she was gone, taking her weird name and red hair and beaming smile with her. 

He replied with a weak, “Bye,” but the doors were already closing and Jon was sat there, face red. 

He was knocked into the seat in front of him when the bus moved once again. As he corrected his position, he unfolded the torn paper. On it, in messy handwriting, was Ygritte’s phone number. He smiled, tucking it safely into the pocket of his bag. 

With the bus pulling away, he looked at the sign above the drivers head. They were in Slough. A small grin appeared on his lips. Only about forty minutes from London, now. From there, he figured, he’d buy a train ticket and make his way up to Edinburgh.

In the meantime, however, he let his head fall against the glass window. His eyes fluttered closed. As the sun rose over the dingy bus, Jon drifted off to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> on another note, i want to share the playlist that inspired this fic and that i listen to when writing. if you only listen to one song off of this, let it be You Worry Me by Nathanial Rateliff & the Night Sweats. that's one of my favorite songs of all time and it inspired the title of this fic.
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4yijULXLOPzxQC1kYOwYWE
> 
> thank you for reading and have a wondrous day

**Author's Note:**

> this plot bunny has been rolling around in my head for weeks now and i just had to get it on paper (or on a google doc) anyway, i hope yall enjoyed this. i hope to have an update within the next couple of weeks. we'll see how it goes :)


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